


Desperation

by sister_dear



Category: Transformers, Transformers (2007), Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_dear/pseuds/sister_dear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violence is a part of everything Barricade does, even this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older fic, one of my first for the fandom, originally written Oct 2007. Set post 2007 movie, with Jazz inexplicably alive again.

It starts as it always does: with a howl of rage. Or need, but such trivialities fade in the face of pure exhilaration rushing through battle-ready systems; the yellow’s finally been caught from behind. The hit is jarring as bodies collide, hands grasping, feet stumbling, pulling back just long enough to regain the balance for a second charge.

The yellow whirls and punches—too fast, too close to use the cannon on his arm. The blow is easy enough to take; yellow’s forgotten to watch the ground behind, left himself open for a low sweep that he avoids only to catch his foot on a tangle of rusted scrap. One last tackle and there’s the ground, rushing up hard, but no matter, because yellow’s not the one on top. He twists and screeches once, defiantly, and the sound sends dark pleasure shivering through energon lines already running hot from the hunt. Another powerful swing batted aside, a wild cannon shot deflected at the last moment, and a returning blow knocks yellow’s head back far enough to expose the delicate wires leading into his torso and one good handful is all it will– wait. No.

The yellow stares up, optics a bright, frozen blue. Too bright, too still, because this is wrong. _Wait. No._ Claws brush over a throat that’s already been mangled once, a twitch away from severing a fuel line and the sensory wires just under it. Too close, _-nowait-_ too close, but there’s no stopping because yellow’s here and he’s beneath but he’s _still a threat_ and there’s _no stopping_ there _never has been_ -

Arms circling around from behind. Silver hands, scraping across armor, under it, teasing. In the next moment they’ve found a buried switch, flicked deftly across it. Gears whirl to life, protective plating sliding aside on reflex.

Open. Far too open.

 _Hey, my man. Ease up a bit, yeah? Leave some for the rest of us._

The voice matches the claws, confident and playful and much too close. They’re inside, touching, _too close-_

They’ve been allowed to go there before.

 _Too close._

A sharp jerk of the head, the loud ringing of helmet on helmet, but the grip hasn’t loosened. Twist, jerk forward—the yellow shrieks again, one of the throat-wires clipped under a forgotten claw. But yellow isn’t pulling away. Of course not; he is not so stupid. The direct approach never works. Instead… one yellow-black hand jabs suddenly into the circuits of the knee wedged into the crevices of his torso, earning a violent twitch, claws snatched back. A furious snarl rips loose unhindered but the reflexive retaliation is stopped short- the one behind has sneaked a hand inside, dangerously, tantalizingly close. He uses it as leverage, pulling, and the world tips sideways.

Yellow hasn’t come with the roll, and that won’t be stood for. Another twist, a good hard shove and the one behind is now also beneath, the crumbling ceiling that comes into view better than looking at the alien sky with its blue that’s bright as the optics appearing suddenly overhead. The one behind is clinging tenaciously even now, hand inside never slipping, now joined by a second set that catches momentarily on plating meant to keep such intruders out. A rage-filled bellow fills the cavernous space, echoing off the filthy ceiling and the broken walls to meet them again. No one should be above. No one.

Wicked claws glint in the light. Before they can latch onto the most immediate target—that tempting throat—yellow panels shift to the side and _that_ is far more appealing a thing to latch onto, to gouge groves into and squeeze _just so_ and the yellow moans on a scream. Someone’s foot shoves down against the floor and they roll again, and now no one is on top because they’re all on the ground together, side by side, and that’s good enough. There are far more important things requiring attention now.

The spark-mind coupling is harsh and fast, like everything, and the yellow shudders again. But he’s strong, with a will more than eager to push back, to wrestle for control that he never quite wins- but it’s enough to temper the pace, all the same. One yellow arm reaches over and around, groping blindly for the one behind, the one who will never be shaken loose. Metal rasps across metal, the last set of plates sliding back. Yellow makes another noise, this one satisfied. The claws from behind, still inside, clench, and suddenly there is another force moving through the connection. This one is swift, light in a way that has nothing to do with physical strength, staying still only long enough to tease. It excites and sooths at the same time, and what had been frenetic battling becomes eager, controlled. The heat and rage collide with determination and serenity and playfulness and for a moment- one blinding, _Primus_ , overwhelming moment- they’re _one_ and they’re _full_ and they’re _whole_ and it’s finally enough.


End file.
